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malignant glance at Winston, whom he
evidently suspected of having tripped him up. But it was all right. Five
seconds later, with a thundering heart, Winston was sitting at the girl's
table.
He did not look at her. He unpacked his tray and promptly began
eating. It was all-important to speak at once, before anyone else came, but
now a terrible fear had taken possession of him. A week had gone by since
she had first approached him. She would have changed her mind, she must
have changed her mind! It was impossible that this affair should end
successfully; such things did not happen in real life. He might have
flinched altogether from speaking if at this moment he had not seen
Ampleforth, the hairy-eared poet, wandering limply round the room with a
tray, looking for a place to sit down. In his vague way Ampleforth was
attached to Winston, and would certainly sit down at his table if he caught
sight of him. There was perhaps a minute in which to act. Both Winston and
the girl were eating steadily. The stuff they were eating was a thin stew,
actually a soup, of haricot beans. In a low murmur Winston began speaking.
Neither of t